


Sunshine

by NeverwinterThistle



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Bob's amazing Dishonored OCs help why is my heart in pieces on the floor, M/M, Warning for drug use, and one very flirty Serkonan Whaler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 01:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>We now know that the tallboys are heavily drugged, imbibing a substance that renders them resistant to pain, but also dulls whatever empathy they might normally possess.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>-The Exquisite Tallboy</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a gift to the lovely Bob-chan on tumblr, whose OCs stole my heart and ran off to Serkonos with it. You can find [several](http://bob-chan.tumblr.com/post/54170054161/so-as-of-late-i-really-wanted-some) of his [beautiful](http://bob-chan.tumblr.com/post/54312312038/i-wanted-to-draw-some-tallboy-whaler-so-coco-and-i) [pictures](http://bob-chan.tumblr.com/post/54496714158/i-wanted-some-fluffy-rinaldo-emmerich-so-have) [here (this one is VERY NSFW)](http://bob-chan.tumblr.com/post/54577022040/have-some-emmerin-where-they-mutually-masturbate) (and these are just my favourites!). May they bring you as much joy as they brought us!

Off the stilts his world fuzzes, blends blurred like the damp, forgotten pamphlets Emmerich tramples on his dull walk back to barracks.

 

It's an odd, stiff, stagger for an hour or so after shift, thighs frozen in the frame's induced rigour, legs lifting too high and striding too long. Their rooms are close to the armoury, to minimise accidents and embarrassment, Lord Burrows said. Kind of him. Deluded on the latter worry, of course; clearly the man's never been on the Grey. No shame to be felt, no _feeling_ to register, so Emmerich's shift partners lurch home like mantises and find it no different to walking, in a past life.

 

The past is crumbly when he tries to grab at it. Staring into his room's small, regulation fireplace and watching last week's shift schedule fold in on its orange-hot self, licked apart by flames, Emmerich thinks, _it's like that_. Father fell to the Plague...a while back, he's not quite sure, he was on shift when it happened. Was there a memorial? Did he go? Should he have?

 

No answers in the flames, so he shuffles to his desk and sifts through piles of meaningless papers. Orders from the Lord Regent, orders from the captains, his equipment handbook, diagrams of weapon functions. No answers there either, and Emmerich's not too sure what he was looking for anyway.

 

Faint ache building in his calves and thighs, upper arms and neck. Time for sleeping, then, before it builds and builds and breaks his walls of nothing. Has he eaten? No protests from his stomach, so he must have done. Faint scent of soap, of clean, so perhaps he bathed as well.

 

The ceiling is plaster white, cracked and crazed with age, mould, Dunwall's pervasive filth. Emmerich has spent hours staring unblinkingly, mapping and forgetting until sleep swaddles him in dreamless mist. It's always like this after shift. Later he'll wake to breakfast and Grey, and once again the world will turn knife-sharp focused, humming whale oil at his back and a trigger under his ready finger. Burning arrows hunger, and he will provide, as he always has. Everything will be as usual.

 

The Whaler was back today. It's been...days, a while, Emmerich isn't really sure how long he's been appearing, only that he too is a part of the cycle. His name is-

 

"Void take me, _again_?" His voice slides through the air like a spoon through soup, one brief impression swiftly swallowed up. He doesn't usually talk to himself.

 

He ought to know the Whaler's name by now. He asks every day, and is told every day, makes a note to not forget this time, and does so anyway. It tastes odd, the name; foreign, to match his visitor's trace of accent. Starts with an S, or a T, or an A, or maybe not. He'll have to ask again.

 

They talked again today, Emmerich thinks. Or rather, the Whaler talked while Emmerich tried to ignore his incessant prattle, but he doesn't think he shot at the man. Not today. He might have done yesterday. Waste of ammunition if he did; the bolts never even get close, and then the Whaler laughs, that careless chuckle that grates at the edges of Emmerich's Grey walls.

 

"I killed a man today," he remembers being told. Mask tossed aside like junk, like something distasteful, and a gloved hand running carelessly through wild dark hair; the Whaler likes to perch on the eaves of buildings as Emmerich strides past, dangling his legs like a child at the docks. "For pay, of course, not because someone gave me some stilts and a bow and said, "shoot things", like some people I could name. But, see, a spot of robbery isn't frowned on either, so long as you're not caught. Fancy a cigar?"

 

There was a...box, some kind of wood, and neat rows of cigars inside; Emmerich remembers the smell, wafting across the gap and between the slits in his mask. Did he reply? He must have done, and it would have been something cool, terse to hide temptation.

 

The Whaler laughed; he does that a lot, Emmerich thinks. The world seems nothing more than an endless joke to him. He laughs at Emmerich's arrows and Emmerich's irritation, breaks off to laugh in the middle of the stories he tells about his victims.

"Fuck, sorry, forgot about the mask thing. Can't you take it off? Could I? Just step right over here, I'll have it gone in a second, we could- or _not_ , then."

 

Maybe he did shoot at the man after all. No chance of connecting, what with his heretic's magic and lightning reflexes; the Whaler's cheeky grin was long gone by the time Emmerich loosed his arrow, smell of burning oil swallowing up the tang of foreign cigars. He doesn't feel regret, never while on duty, but Emmerich remembers wishing he'd held back a second longer, for the brief luxury. Cigars are rationed now, and they were never of the same quality as the ones on offer.

 

"S'fine, I didn't really want to share with you anyway," and the Whaler appeared on his other side, perched once more with his hair all over the place. He tugged at it in frustration, trying to force some semblance of calm onto the unruly strands. Masked and armed, he must be a fearful sight indeed, but Emmerich has always thought he resembles nothing so much as a swaggering rooster. It would be a funny thought, if he still laughed.

 

"Leave me alone, or next time I won't miss," he said, or something thereabouts. The usual drivel, with the usual effect. The Whaler kicked his legs and didn't move.

 

"We've been through this, sunshine. I'll _go_ when you show up remembering my name."

 

"Names are difficult," Emmerich thinks he said. It's true, they are; he doesn't know the names of his fellows, though they live in the same building, and he's yet to meet one who knows his. "But I'm certain mine isn't 'sunshine'."

 

"Yeah, 'depressing raincloud' might be better; matches your cheerless face. But you'll still be the sunshine of my gloomy days, so I'll let you off this once. Sunshine." The usual grin, splitting a tanned face with easy abandon. Smiling comes easy to the Whaler, like jokes and, if his stories are to be believed, death.

 

"I'll remember," Emmerich is surprised to recall himself promising. "Tomorrow, I will know your name, if only so I never have to see you again."

 

"You're on, my dear depressing raincloud. Upon my honour as a gentleman, I'll fuck right off if you don't need another introduction tomorrow."

 

Why did he promise that?

 

Emmerich blinks at his ceiling and strains to find a name he's already lost. It's not his fault, the Grey makes things warp and blur, and he has to take it. For the concentration, his superiors say. For the pain of walking hours in the Tallboy frame. It's not easy to aim and fire on stilts, and harder still if every muscle shrieks mutiny, and your mind rebels at shooting, just in case it's _not_ a Weeper. No room for distinction on the stilts. If it moves, it dies.

 

He promised though. That used to mean something. Lying Tongues, _like a spark in a man's mouth_. Burning cities... _the father of a lie_. Second Stricture. His father once read a different Stricture before each meal, before anyone was permitted to touch his mother's simple cooking. _From one spark_ , like the sparks of his arrows, and he must remember to be careful of where he is aiming, his superiors are always saying.  Wouldn't do to _burn the city to the ground_.

 

Emmerich wakes to weak light through his room's tiny window; he didn't draw the curtain before sleeping, as usual. The blur has faded somewhat, as it always does, and he can feel the faintest flicker of muted warmth in the yellow glare. _Sunshine_ , Emmerich thinks, and drags himself out of bed so as not to miss breakfast.

 

It's the usual porridge and tea, a sprinkle of sugar for every man (only the best for the Watch's best, they've been told again and again; maybe because people keep forgetting), their morning dose of Elixir and Grey. Like powdered charcoal, it sits in a thimble by his bowl, for taking however he pleases.

 

Some of the men add it to their Elixir; twice as unpleasant, but gone in half the time. Others mix it with the food, or down it with gulps of tea. Nothing makes it taste any better.

 

Emmerich stares at his for a while, doggedly working his way through mostly flavourless oats and unfortunately flavourful Elixir. Then, when there's nothing left but a thimble of powder and a half-cup of tea, he tips one into the other and goes to pour both down the drain, untouched.

 

Lucid he dons his armour, lacks the usual arrow-sharpness that makes every detail into a painting of a thousand shades. The aches are back too, and Emmerich finds himself turning away from the other men dressing for patrol, hiding his winces as aching muscles stretch into protective plating, boots, and finally his harness. It weighs more than he remembers, but there's no going back now.

 

The fog remains in Emmerich's mind, hazing the wonder he should be feeling to find himself so high up and graceful on mantis-legs, bow in hand and shields bobbing behind his back like leaves in the wind. _Now_ he sees the point of the Grey, and it's not just making them too empty to care if their kills are Weepers or not. The harness weighs heavy on his chest, and lifting his legs into the Tallboy prance is a building agony he struggles to ignore.

 

_Lift, and step. Lift, and step. Jagged white shards stabbing through his muscles, and the fog in his mind is clearing to reveal a killer headache. Lift, lurch and step. Emmerich would like to meet the man who designed the stilts and crush him under pronged feet as he begs for mercy. Lift, and step._

_Movement_.

 

"You're looking a little shaky there, raindrop of grimness. Someone slip whiskey into your Elixir?"

 

He's back, strolling along the rooftop at Emmerich's side, mask in hand and grin in place, and his name is _Rinaldo_. Emmerich sags a little in relief, then winces as his shields clank together.

 

"I know your name," he grunts through gritted teeth, trying to roll his shoulders under the drag of harness. "The drug wipes it usually, so I didn't take any today. _Urgh_." He doesn't remember the whale oil tank's hiss ever being quite so irritating; it's right there in his ear, a maddening, constant presence that only adds to his misery. Aches up his legs- this can't be normal, surely. How do they all cope?

 

If his head would just stop aching, he might be able to think properly.

 

"Shit, you're a mess," Rinaldo comments from the rooftop; the smirk fades somewhat. "Coming down's a bitch, yeah?"

 

"It numbs the pain from this...Outsider-damned monstrosity," Emmerich says, and imagines his father rolls over in whatever poor excuse for a grave they laid him down in. Shame is something he hasn't felt in a while; maybe the Strictures will start to make sense again too. "If I could get my hands on that Sokolov fellow-" the shields clank again as he tries to stretch, and Emmerich surrenders. He will just have to endure. _That_ would please Father.

 

"C'mere," Rinaldo says abruptly, beckoning with a liquid-filled tube he pulls apparently from thin air. "Elixir's good for our wounds, it might work for you." He's right, too. The Elixir at breakfast numbs their aches until the Grey kicks in, and Emmerich is a fool not to have saved some.

 

"Thanks," Emmerich says; Whaler or not, he has no excuse to be rude, now he remembers manners. He fumbles one-handed for the clasps on his helmet. No amount of Elixir and free cigars will seduce him into handing over his bow, but it leaves him without hands to reach for the offered glass tube, until Rinaldo snatches the helmet from him.

 

"Hey-"

 

"Shut up, flower of despair. Drink your damn Elixir already."

 

He does, and it helps, the vile red liquid going down like the syrup Mother forced on him during his childhood illnesses. She always said it would help if he'd give it a chance, and she's yet to be wrong; the aches ease in seconds. Emmerich closes his eyes in relief.

 

"Oh now _that's_ a good look on you." He'll get no rest until he's in his grave, Emmerich thinks irritably, cracking his eyes back open to scowl at the- at Rinaldo.

 

"What is?"

 

"Eyes closed in ecstasy; suits you. I could stand to see more of it, if you were keen-" he throws the empty bottle of Elixir at the space where Rinaldo used to stand, and it shatters harmlessly on roof tiles. The Whaler reappears a few metres away, and struts back into place, glass crushed unnoticed under his boots. "Missed, as usual. Give a man a chance, would you? You're breaking my heart here."

 

" _Heretic_ ," Emmerich snaps, as righteously as possible with the gifted Elixir still burning a glorious path down his throat. He rolls his shoulders reflexively and it's the easiest thing; the harness still drags, but he can tolerate it while his muscles aren't screaming. "Do not tempt me, I know your tricks."

 

"Oh." Rinaldo slumps down into his usual seated pose, legs dangling off the eaves. His shoulders fall in dejection, or a false impression of it. The man is not to be trusted. "You're one of _those_ people. Regular Abbey attendee, Strictures memorised, that sort?"

 

Emmerich can't recall the last time he attended an Overseer's sermon; not in months, he thinks, and certainly not after he took to the stilts. As for the Strictures...he's searched for his book of them at random lucid intervals, but it may have been burnt in an evening's thoughtless haze.

 

"Get your... _depredations of uncontrolled desire_ away from me, servant of the Outsider. I want nothing to do with you." He swallows a bitter aftertaste of guilt and freely given Elixir.

 

Rinaldo stands again. He has the grace to toss Emmerich his Tallboy helmet before picking up the odd Whaler's mask, and the gesture's care does nothing to help.

 

"Back tomorrow, I guess." He shrugs, swinging his mask idly in one hand as if he's in no hurry to don it. "Maybe you'll know my name then, _Emmerich_. Me, I'm quite the optimist. Drives the Master insane, but you can't have everything."

 

"Rinaldo," Emmerich calls over before he can stop himself. "I said I knew it, and I'm no liar. I won't forget again." He regrets it immediately; Rinaldo's face lights up, its usual cheeky grin a blazing light in Dunwall's dark and gloom. Emmerich tries not to feel too staggered.

 

"So you'll leave me now, as promised?" There may be a note of pleading in his voice, but at least it buries the small disappointment.

 

Rinaldo laughs at him, and Emmerich knows then that he'll not be rid of the Whaler anytime soon.

 

"Keep dreaming, my sorrowful stiltwalker. Dream of me anytime you please, actually; you should see the things I dream about _you_." Emmerich has nothing left to throw, so he settles for putting on his helmet and scowling threateningly the whole time. There's no sign it dims Rinaldo's enthusiasm in the slightest.

 

"You can _leave_ ," he says. Rinaldo waves his Whaler helmet in Emmerich's general direction.

 

"Until tomorrow, paragon of all that is tragic. Take care now."

 

"And you," Emmerich responds automatically, but it's much too late to take it back, with Rinaldo vanished once again, and no sign he was ever around save the shards of red glass littering the nearby rooftop. "Damn."

 

He has hours of patrol left, and Weepers to hunt, as the Lord Regent has commanded. Same as ever, but the pain is gone and his mind is...not quite his own, not yet, but it will be. Emmerich has seen the sunlight once again, and he won't let it go so easily. He's done with the drug.

 

 _Lift, and step._ Insect-like he stalks, slender legs silver in the streetlamps, and the fog begins to lift.


End file.
